


Acceptance

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, BJ Has Issues, Boundaries, Established Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, M/M, Marriage, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Supply, let hawkeye be an emotional adult 2K20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: BJ tries to answer the question and gets lost in the memory of the first time Hawkeye touched him, really touched him. Not the slightest bit romantic, on his knees and hurling his guts into the weeds, but he remembered that with gunshots going off around him and people dying at his feet, having Hawkeye's hand on his back felt like a shield. And hadn't he dodged the bullets, that day, and every day since?
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Peg Hunnicutt
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> Not in the Sunshine & Filth verse  
> With Thanks to @queerontilmorning for tagging assistance!

BJ grips the arms of the dentist chair, his eyes darting from corner to corner out of habit - what if someone sees, what if someone's walking by, what if - 

it only lasts until Hawkeye moves his tongue over the head of his cock in a way he's never felt before, and he has to close his eyes, panting. Hawkeye hums around his cock in the sound of a question and BJ nearly grabs him by the hair.

"It's good, Hawk," he whispers. 

Hawkeye pulls away, and BJ opens his eyes to find him sitting back on his heels. "Then why do you look like I'm trying to give you a root canal instead of a good time?"

BJ smiles weakly. "The usual," he says, with a gesture toward his side of the tent. _The usual,_ meaning second-guessing his interpretation of Peggy's letter, fear of discovery, fear of what it means about his life, his marriage, hell, his reputation.

Hawkeye looks like he's about to roll his eyes and instead reaches to tuck BJ back into his pants. "Okay."

"Okay?" 

"I can't compete with - with _this,_ " Hawkeye answers, imitating BJ's gesture. "You let me know when _this_ decides to take a hike, and you have time for me."

"That's not fair," BJ protests. Hawkeye raises an eyebrow. 

"To whom, exactly?"

"You know I have a lot on my mind. " BJ can't keep a trace of a whine out of his voice. 

Hawkeye nods thoughtfully. "No, you do. That's exactly it, Beej. You've got so much on your mind you've stopped asking your heart what it thinks about the situation."

"Hawk, half the problem is that my heart won't stop shouting what it thinks about the situation."

"Which is?"

BJ stops, the words caught in his throat. "I - " he stammers helplessly. "I don't want to hurt anyone. Or get caught," he finishes. 

Hawkeye gets to his feet, and drops a kiss into his hair. "I know, Beej. Let me know when you figure it out."

The next time BJ sees him is three hours later; Hawk is walking the new nurse back to Supply, teetering between tipsy and drunk. He bites back the urge to call him over.

*

BJ is still awake when Hawkeye comes back into the tent, earlier and more quietly than usual. BJ squints through the darkness, hearing, more than seeing, the shape of Hawkeye as he sits down, unties his boots, and lies back with a sigh. BJ can almost see the way his hands are pillowed behind his head.

"Have a good night?" he asks, hating himself more than a little bit for how desperate he sounds. Hawkeye responds with a noncomittal grunt. BJ squirms in the silence. He hears Hawkeye roll over, and shortly after, starts snoring.

BJ's too restless to sleep. He rolls onto his side - not the greatest position for relieving one's late-night jitters, but the Swamp's unspoken rule is that attempts to cover up one's tracks are treated as though said attempts are in any way successful. He closes his eyes, cupping a hand over his shorts. Think of Peggy. No, think of someone else, someone anonymous, unknown, a wet mouth, a soft hand, how good it would feel to be touching someone, anyone right now.

Across the tent, Hawkeye sighs in his sleep, and a tiny sound emerges, like a wisp of smoke, and suddenly, BJ's body stirs to life.

He hates the effect Hawkeye has on him, hates the way his body seems to respond to Hawk's like a magnet, or a compass - called, compelled, uncontrollably attracted. He tries to keep his touch light, quiet, but his body leans into it, building tension, demanding to be stroked, to be _held._ A sudden surge of loneliness rips through BJ; he lets out a long, shuddery breath.

He pretends not to hear Hawkeye sit up, ignores the sound of him shuffling across the tent, tries to shut it out until Hawkeye's hand is on his shoulder, breaking every unspoken rule of three-men-one-tent etiquette. Hawkeye's fingers tug at him until he rolls over, thankful for the shapeless army blanket covering him. Hawkeye turns and heads outside; BJ is clearly meant to follow, and he does, because when it comes to Hawkeye, he can't resist the desperate need for closeness.

He follows Hawkeye at a the careful distance they've never discussed but somehow agreed is the most plausibly deniable. Hawkeye stops at post-op, holds up a hand to tell BJ to wait without looking at him; he comes out after a few minutes, bearing an extra pillow. 

By the time they reach Supply, BJ's heart is pounding in his ears. Hawkeye goes in, and BJ waits, counting off the seconds, looking around for anyone who might be awake, spying, or both. Finally, he unbolts the door, checks to make sure the do-not-disturb-hanger is in its place, and slips inside.

"So?" Hawkeye's voice breaks through the darkness, gentle, but with a bit of an edge to it. 

"I couldn't sleep," BJ says, answering an unasked question.

Hawkeye sighs. BJ's eyes are getting used to the deeper dark of the shed and can make out the outline of him, sitting on the pilfered pillow, head against some bundles of sheets and blankets in canvas bags. He has the sudden urge to bite his nails, a habit med school kicked out of him long ago.

"You can't keep doing this," Hawkeye says, and it's as much a tone of understanding as a warning. "You're going to rip yourself apart."

BJ gives a hollow chuckle at that. "I'm already there, Hawk."

"Should I have never...?" Hawkeye's question finishes itself in BJ's head. Kissed him. Held him. Whispered things that made him feel powerful and weak in the knees at the same time. Made love to him, taught him a thousand different ways to fall apart and come back together. Turned the upside-down world of Korea right back up, and then then inside out.

BJ tries to answer the question and gets lost in the memory of the first time Hawkeye touched him, really touched him. Not the slightest bit romantic, on his knees and hurling his guts into the weeds, but he remembered that with gunshots going off around him and people dying at his feet, having Hawkeye's hand on his back felt like a shield. And hadn't he dodged the bullets, that day, and every day since?

"Beej?" He can hear the fear in it, the _I've already lost you,_ the _I've made a terrible mistake,_ folded into the creases of his name. Hawkeye, who named him, who turned his already-a-nickname of a name into something like a song. 

"No," he finally gets out. "You should have. I'm glad you..." he lets it hang, the habit of assuming eavesdroppers ingrained in both of them. He walks over to Hawkeye's seat as quietly as his boots will let him, sits down and leans against the sack of towels next to Hawkeye. Hawkeye's hand finds his in the dark out of habit, out of something BJ tells himself is the same helpless magnetism he feels any time they're near each other. He brings their interwoven fingers to his lips, kisses the mess of knuckles. 

"Beej," Hawkeye whispers, and this time it's plaintive, begging. BJ isn't sure whether he's pleading with him to stop or to keep going.

"Hawk," he answers, nipping at what he thinks is one of Hawkeye's fingers, but turns out to be his own.

"Don't do anything you're going to regret."

BJ stops. "Is pain always something you regret?" he asks. 

"Generally speaking," Hawkeye says, a flicker of sarcasm in his voice.

"If it's painless you want, Hawk, then you signed up for the wrong war."

He waits for the return, for the coming quip he's sure is on the tip of Hawkeye's tongue right now, but for once, Hawkeye doesn't try to one-up him. 

"There's pain you can't do anything about, and there's pain you can avoid," Hawkeye says finally. "I try to keep the latter to a minimum."

"And this is...?"

"The very reason I don't do married."

That stings, but he deserves it. "Hawk," he says, "I love being married."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do. I love - the feeling that someone is always there, but it's not just about company. It's GOOD company, a lifetime of sharing a table, a bed, a dance. It's love but it's more than that. It's - I thought it was supposed to a be a special thing, a one-person thing. That's why you have rings, and promises. But then I come here, with my marriage tucked into my back pocket like a lifeline, like a floating raft that I can cling to in the middle of the ocean, and I discover I need it terribly, need to think of the future, with Peggy and Erin, and that it does so much to keep me from going crazy. But not going crazy isn't the same as being happy."

He pauses, licking his lips and swallowing; his mouth is suddenly dry. The pieces of it are finally coming together.

"I need the promise of the future as much as anything. But you're not the future. You're the present. You're here, and you know what it's like to stand in blood up to your ankles, to get splinters in your ass from a new latrine, to survive on whatever World War II surplus shit on a shingle's being served. And," his voice starts to shake, "I need you just as much as I need her. And that doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense."

Now it's Hawkeye's turn to press his lips to the back of BJ's hand, and the gesture is enough to bring tears to his eyes. He tries to disguise it as a sniffle, but Hawkeye turns toward him, arms open, and BJ falls into them, shaking.

"Don't leave me, Hawk," he whispers, and it's senseless and pathetic, but it's the most true thing he's ever said. "I can't do this without you."

"You idiot," Hawkeye says, his voice dripping with affection. "What makes you think I can do this without you?"

BJ replies by lifting his head and kissing Hawkeye desperately, and when Hawkeye doesn't pull away, BJ feels the acceptance settle in both of them, with all its complexity and uncertainty. There's no space for angst in a war zone, not really; there's life, and there's death. Anything that gets in the way of the former aids and abets the latter.

The kissing leads to a scramble for each others' clothes, and for the first time, BJ pushes Hawkeye onto his back, kissing the side of his neck, fingertips finding the sensitive skin of his nipple while Hawkeye gasps and shudders against him. BJ runs his fingers along the crevice of each of Hawkeye's ribs, down his hipbones, making him twitch with suppressed giggles. 

He's never seen Hawk like this, yielding, open, so willingly ceding control. He has been BJ's guide and mentor, teaching him the pleasures of his own body, working from an apparently different map than his and Peggy's adventures of mutual discovery. Somehow, touching him like this, working him over, finding the tender spots that give way to visible pleasure is an entirely new world.

Hawkeye has never asked for reciprocation, never once pressured him into giving more than BJ's own suggestions, but he appears to have hidden this part of himself, this willingness, this eagerness to be taken. BJ takes a moment to unbutton Hawkeye's pants and slip a hand under his shorts, and Hawkeye clings to him, muttering, "Yes, yes yes, ohgd, yes, please, Beej - " 

The heady power of hearing Hawkeye beg for him sends a blush all the way down BJ's body. He is suddenly desperate - NEEDS - to see how far he can take it. To see if he can make Hawkeye scream. Their circumstances suddenly shift from inconvenient to tragic. 

He stuffs a corner of Hawkeye's discarded shirt between Hawkeye's teeth, and lowers his mouth onto his cock. The resulting muffled groan nearly breaks him.

His jaw starts to ache fairly quickly, but he carries on, determined. Hawkeye's hands are twisted into his hair, tugging every time his tongue finds a new spot. BJ feels drunk on the sounds Hawkeye makes - little pants and moans, a hissed _fuuuck_ through tight lips. The mix of admiration, adoration, and attraction that he feels for this man often conspire to make him feel unworthy, but tonight, he feels like he's earning his place in Hawkeye's memory, at least, if not his heart.

Hawkeye frantically taps at his shoulder, and BJ instinctively knows what he means, pulling away, and pausing for long enough to catch the utterly desperate look on Hawkeye's face. He quickly brings his hand to Hawkeye's cock, stroking quickly as Hawkeye pants into his shirt, then stops, for one moment that stretches out into half a lifetime as BJ watches his body curl and snap, erupting into his hand.

BJ scrambles up to hold him, remembering how it feels when Hawk does this to him - the mounting intensity, the need, the urge, and then the sudden feeling of emptiness, an abrupt, cold wind following a hot storm. Hawkeye always holds him after, always kisses him tenderly, even if he still has BJ's come on his tongue, fills the emptiness with his presence, his own body.

Hawkeye sags into his arms, practically purring.


End file.
